The Choice
by Elle Mac
Summary: AU, but Epilogue/Canon Compliant. It's Hermione's wedding day, but she would rather be off banishing bats out of belfries. What is it about marrying Ronald Weasley that is so inconceivable? And why has she made the choice to go through with it if she feels so strongly opposed?
1. Chapter 1

It was three o' clock in the morning, and the church was deadly quiet. Hermione Jean Granger sat in one of the eight wooden pews, looking up the aisle at the cross behind the pulpit. Draped over the arms was a purple sash, and it hung motionless, undisturbed by even the air conditioner. It was as if this very moment—this witching hour—was frozen in time and space. Hermione thought that she would like that very much indeed.

With a sigh, she rose and padded down toward the preacher's podium. Her bare feet slapped against the stone floor like gunshots in the stillness of the night. She almost jumped, but forced herself to remain calm, the very picture of serenity. She only had a few more hours to practice and get this whole routine down; she couldn't underscore a single step or breath, or the entire congregation would know that she was having second thoughts about marrying Ronald Weasley.

She paused in front of the cross and turned about-face, resuming her silent pacing. Each step was precise, purposeful, and with each footfall she repeated the words "I do" in her head. _I do_. _I do_. _I do_. She couldn't forget those two little words. Step. _I do_. Step. _I do_. Step. _I do_. She would repeat this mantra, this processional, until she had convinced herself that this was the right thing to do. Ron had proven himself a hundred times over, hadn't he? She had put this off long enough, hadn't she? It was worthless to keep holding out hope that Draco would change his mind and forgive her, wasn't it?

She stopped.

 _Draco_. She hasn't allowed herself to speak—let alone think—his name in almost three years. That was the last time she'd written to him, practically begging him to meet her by the fountain in Trafalgar Square on New Year's Eve. _It's the fifth anniversary of our first kiss, you know. I think about that night all the time; the fireworks overhead were nothing compared to the ones behind my eyelids. I don't think I've ever kept them shut so tightly. Looking back on it now, the whole scene feels like a dream. I just need to know that it was real._

Her knees were suddenly weak, and she lowered herself to floor as gracefully as she could. The stone was icy against her bare shins, and shocked her out of her reverie. There was no sense dwelling on the past now; the invitations were sent, the reservations made, the dress ready for the ceremony. She glanced back over her shoulder at the shawl on the cross—still immobile—and wished again that she could pause time.

* * *

AN: I apologize for the shortness of this chapter; I've been out of the writing game for a couple years and I was anxious to get this idea off the drawing board. Future chapters should be more substantial, although there won't be many of them—I'm just wrapping up loose ends and addressing the handful of issues I took with the canonical epilogue (I'm sure I'm not alone in this). Comments and feedback are always welcome. Happy reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Draco Malfoy sat at an ebony desk, glancing at the missive on the table. It had the look of a letter that had been opened, read, and closed multiple times in as many days, and he seemed to have the very curvature of the script memorized.

"You are cordially invited," read the topmost line, "to celebrate the wedding of Hermione Jean Granger to Ronald Billius Weasley." Her name was written in a delicate flourish that was fitting of her name and personality. It didn't suit Weasley at all.

"We will gather at the Parish Church of St. Clementine in Godric's Hollow on Tuesday, June the 2nd, at two o' clock. Reception to follow." Somehow, the venue was not a surprise. He leaned back into his arm chair and closed his eyes. He had been to the village only once in his life, long before his years at Hogwarts, and he could barely recall the church. It seemed to him to be the only distinguishable building in town, save for the rubble of the Potter's house. Yet, the details of the parish eluded him.

He didn't need to turn his eyes back to the paper to know that below the address was a handmade scribble, barely legible. "I would've wanted the option."

It would be a lie if he said that he hadn't thought—at least initially—that the invitation had come from Granger in another attempt to pique his interest. It wasn't the first time he'd received a letter from her; in fact, she had written to him several times over the past few years. But the appearance of Weasley's atrocious penmanship had rooted out that suspicion and replaced it with another. The redhead was trying to goad him into a final showdown. Yet, the phrasing was all wrong. It was too nuanced.

"'I would've wanted the option.'" Draco read aloud, then scoffed. "I highly doubt that, Weasel."

He stood up from his seat behind the desk and moved toward the fireplace, his steps muffled by the ornate carpet. A large mirror hung over the mantle, reflecting the orangey glow of firelight that played along the opposite wall and created ghostly shadows. Their appearance drew him back to a far-away corridor, where paintings moved in strangely rhythmic ways, and the torchlight turned their actions into looming specters.

 _He leaned back into the flagstone wall, which was cool against the nape of his neck. He was sweating, he realized. Made nervous by the paintings. Embarrassment flared hot in his cheeks, and he glanced around to make sure that no one had witnessed his moment of weakness. There! A brown-haired girl in Hogwarts robes waited at the end of the hall, looking at him, through him, into her own nightmares. Then her eyes were clear and alert, piercing his with an unmistakable pain. Did she see those ghosts, too?_

Draco shook his head, clearing the memory as quickly as it had come on. He couldn't bear to think of that last year at Hogwarts, of how he had grown to love Hermione Granger, mind, body, and soul. How he still loved her, despite almost a decade's separation. Which, he might do well to remember, was his own damned fault.

He whirled away from the fireplace in a swish of robes. _Bugger Weasley_. Draco had worked for years to school his emotions into a semblance of detached coolness, to pretend as though he didn't remember the smell of her hair, or the softness of her touch, or the depth of those brown eyes. Now, that idiotic redhead was unraveling his tenuous hold on his feelings.

Was this what he meant in that careless addendum? The option to admit to his feelings and reclaim Hermione's heart? Surely Weasley knew, on some level, that attending their wedding was not going to result in the happily-ever-after that the redhead hoped for. _Or would it?_

The realization sucked all the warmth from the room. Draco hadn't spoken to Granger in years—three years, not that he was keeping count—and there was the slightest possibility that she had given up on him. That she'd resigned herself to a lifetime of mediocrity with a mop of atrocious red hair. But if she were given the choice to escape that fate, would she take it?

He honestly wasn't sure.


	3. Chapter 3

The simple, circular clock on the wall above the vanity read 2:00 p.m. Hermione closed her eyes one last time and took in a deep breath through her nose. Sequestered away in the chapel's "bride room," she thought that the vibrations of the gathering congregation would be impossible to detect. Yet, she could sense the hum of life, the pulsation of footsteps, handshakes, and heartbeats, emanating from the sanctuary just down the hall.

"Hermione," Ginny said quietly, "it's time."

She paced her final exhalation to make sure it didn't sound like a sigh of resignation, then stood. "I'm ready."

The pair made their way to the door, pausing momentarily to retrieve Hermione's bridal bouquet from one of the vases that lined the room. She had to admit, it was certainly a beautiful arrangement. When Ron suggested orange and purple as the colors for their wedding theme, Hermione had never imagined that the two colors would come together so harmoniously. Here in her hand was the proof; orange roses—for fascination and desire—mingled with white and purple larkspur—for happiness and first love, respectively—punctuated by brilliant, green Fuji chrysanthemums and pillowy, white Gerbera daisies—for new beginnings. _Someone's been talking to Neville._

"Such a lovely bouquet," Ginny beamed as she opened the door to the narthex. "I think your mum was spot on about weaving some of those flowers into your hair. You look gorgeous."

Hermione blushed despite herself; after all these years, she still was unaccustomed to compliments. But her future sister-in-law was right; the buds accentuated the loose braid that helped reign her wild curls into a tastefully messy bun at the top of her neck. The purple of the larkspur and the orange of the roses were vibrant against the natural highlights of her hair, a lovely foil to what many considered "dull" and "mousy."

With one final glance in the mirror, they exited the room and made their way down the corridor toward the main hall. She could hear the tickling of ivory keys, the magical fluttering of chimes, and the soulful sound of woodwinds pouring out from the sanctuary, signifying that the wedding processional was in full swing. She was right on time.

The Church of St. Clementine was small, as was appropriate for a parish the size of Godric's Hollow, but it was immensely charming despite its shortcomings. Hermione and Ginny walked in companionable silence, the redhead in the lead so as to block any view of the bride from curious latecomers. They stopped short at a corner, where the younger girl turned suddenly and kissed Hermione's cheek, before taking up her position at the end of the processional directly behind an ethereal-looking Luna Lovegood.

"Nervous?"

Hermione jumped at the sound of her father's voice. So singularly focused on her path to the altar, she hadn't noticed him waiting at the edge of the foyer.

"Haha, I'll take that as a yes." Timothy Granger's eyes twinkled with a merriment that she did not feel. Guilt wound itself around the ball of anxiety in her stomach as he put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"Is it obvious?" She whispered.

"Yes, but it's expected." He smiled before removing his hand from her shoulder, choosing instead to crook his arm. The music emanating from the sanctuary changed, and a soft quartet of violins replaced the crisp notes of the piano, chimes, and flutes. The bridal processional had begun.

Feeling suddenly sentimental, Hermione wrapped her arms around her father's neck and hugged him fiercely. It was as if she were a little girl again, frightened and seeking solace in the warm embrace of her father. Timothy patted her back gingerly. "Don't you worry, Ninny; everything is going to turn out just fine."

Her father's heartfelt reassurance was more than she could bear, and she took several shallow breaths to calm herself. She would not cry this day, neither out of happiness nor desperation, and instead willed the corners of her mouth to turn upwards into the barest hint of an expression. Like the Mona Lisa, she gave nothing away.


	4. Chapter 4

Draco couldn't help but think that the Parish Church of St. Clementine was surprisingly beautiful for being the staple of a rundown borough like Godric's Hollow. The bricks of the building were as ancient and weathered as those of Hogwarts Castle, and imparted a similar sense of familiarity and safety. Indeed, the front doorway was like the one in the Great Hall: overlarge and arched, swinging inward to reveal walls hung with freshly laundered tapestries smelling of rosewater and that unnameable scent that so often accompanies soap suds. Instead of long rows of tables, small benches flanked both sides of the room, leaving the middle free to traverse.

Draco's footsteps thudded against the old stone floors. Looking down, he could see where years of trodden feet had made their impression and heightened the perception that this was a place that people came to often. A sanctuary where prayers could be answered, fears could be alleviated, and hope could be restored. He silently added his own to the ones that had come before him, and proceeded to the next doorway where a shaggy, dark-haired man collected invitations.

"Long time no see, Potter," Draco smiled at the look of suspicion on the Golden Boy's face. "Never pegged you as the type for the Lord's work. I must say, that suit isn't nearly as fitting as your Auror's robes."

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Potter said tersely, but quietly, as he cast a quick glance over his shoulder toward the altar. Draco followed his line of sight and spied a certain redheaded groom in conversation with a group of people in front of the pulpit, oblivious to the goings-on in the lobby.

"Isn't it apparent? I'm here for the same reason you are."

"This is a private event, Malfoy. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Why should I? I was invited." Draco extended the invitation with a satisfied smirk.

"The hell you were," the Golden Boy muttered, all but snatching the envelope from Draco's outstretched hand. Potter's eyes fells on the handwritten scrawl at the bottom of the invitation, then closed in a mixture of disbelief and exasperation. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Feel free to perform whatever handy Auror spells are necessary to verify the authenticity of the invitation."

"I _will_ ," the shaggy-haired man glared, withdrawing his wand from the sleeve of his suit and murmuring incantations over the letter. Barely a second passed before the entire note began to glow a pale green. The sight triggered something deep within him, and Draco closed his eyes and willed his memories away; images of ghostly white and spindly fingers tracing a skull and snake, which emanated a similar verdant slight, flitted behind his eyelids. He instinctively covered his arm where the tattoo lay hidden, and swallowed back the bile climbing up his throat.

"Are you quite done?" He asked.

"Quite." Potter said, folding up the invitation and handing it back. "I don't know what the blazes Ron was thinking, inviting you here. But let me make one thing clear, Malfoy…"

"Let me guess," Draco said, rolling his eyes as he pocketed the envelope, "I had better be on my best behavior and not cause a scene?"

The Golden Boy scoffed, "You think you know everything, don't you?"

"No, that would be Granger."

"You don't know anything about Hermione Granger," the dark-haired man's voice was icy. "But if you care about her, you will sit at the back of the rectory and keep your damned mouth shut."

Draco's haughty look had slipped into one of solemn concern as Potter moved aside, gesturing that he should enter and take his seat. Draco took a step forward, then whispered just loud enough for the other man to hear, "What if that's not what she wants?"

"What she wanted never really seemed to matter much to you."


End file.
